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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26396773">Capitulation</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/F1nch/pseuds/F1nch'>F1nch</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Adventure Zone (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Murder Mystery, Alternate Universe - Spies &amp; Secret Agents, Amnesia, Canon Compliant, F/F, Gen, Murder Mystery, Post-Canon, Spies &amp; Secret Agents</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:33:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,272</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26396773</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/F1nch/pseuds/F1nch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>AKA "You're not even alive/If you're not backed up on a drive."</p><p>“How long have I been out?”</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“Two weeks. That’s all we know.”</p><p>“Two weeks…” The words felt wrong on her tongue. “Then, then who am I?”</p><p>“The Ashland County Jane Doe, I’m afraid.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Irene Baker &amp; Nadiya Jones</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Capitulation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'm very excited to get back into commitment again, after all this time! I hope you enjoy this fic, which I'm hoping to turn into a longer work.</p><p>This first chapter is split into two types of scenes: Scenes with the amnesiac and scenes with Agent Baker. I'll be listing trigger warnings for these scenes separately.</p><p>The Amnesiac:<br/>- Amnesia/Memory loss<br/>- Hospital settings<br/>- Physical therapy<br/>- Injury mentions<br/>- A depiction of an allergic reaction<br/>- Mentions of the use of an Epipen</p><p>Agent Baker:<br/>- Amnesia/Memory oss<br/>- Illness mentions<br/>- Mentions of a natural disaster<br/>- Depictions of a dead body<br/>- A non-graphic depiction of an autopsy</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
  <span>Coming back from the dead could be rough.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>It was difficult to describe, especially to someone who had never gone through it before (which was, likely, just about the entire population of planet Earth.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    In feeling, it was closest to the feeling of dumping ice cold water on your own head. For a moment, your whole body, every part of it, forgot its purpose. Panic stopped your heart for a split second as your brain’s gears spun so quickly that sparks flew.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    And then, it all stopped, and there was nothing left but a dull feeling of numbness in your fingers and toes. That was what it was like to come back from the dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The woman’s fingers curled instinctively around the linens on which they laid. They were cold. With considerable effort, she managed to coax her eyes open, which felt to her like a logical next step, though she couldn’t exactly explain why. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Wherever she was, it was bright. That was the first thing that registered in her mind. Too bright. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Where was she?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It was less of a panicked thought, and more of a passing question, drifting in her mind, but not calling any attention to itself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    She had no idea as to the answer, but something told her that raising from her horizontal position would bring her somewhat closer to a solution. It was easier said than done, certainly, but with much struggle, she was sitting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The rest of the room wasn’t so bright, she noted with relief. The light must’ve been up. What was up? The ceiling. Or the sky? No, she was in a building. Was that her answer? No, there were quite a few buildings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    She rubbed her eyes, and took in what she could about the world around her. The room’s walls were a rather calming mint green, though the floor was blank and tiled, as was the ceiling. On one wall, a whiteboard hung, with notes scribbled on it in red marker. Just below it, a counter of sorts jutted out of the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    She knew what this place was. She had been here before. What was it? A hoppy, hot-tub, horse-ride, Hollywood, hotel…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A hospital.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Why was she in the hospital?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    It felt for all the world as though a second bucket of water had just been dumped on her, though this one managed to, somehow, be even colder. The second delivery of information had jabbed itself into her brain, giving her no time to adjust.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    She was in a hospital. Specifically, she was in a hospital bed. In a quickened panic, she threw the linen off of herself, noting her perfectly-pressed blue hospital gown as she scanned herself for wounds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    None. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    She wasn’t hurt, then. Then why was she here? She had to ask… she wanted to go home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Where was that, again? </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    What was her name, again?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    A third bucket of water. She was quite sure that her own name should have been quite an easy fact for her to recall, but the space in her mind where said information was stored was simply blank. It was not misplaced, nor was it corrupted. It was simply empty, as if such information had never existed at all. Its container had been made with no intent of ever being filled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Who was she? What was her name?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    She wanted to go home. Everything was at home. Her name, her words. She was out of bed in a split second, though she could hardly remember making the action. It was a foreign feeling, standing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Though, it wasn’t a feeling that lasted long. As soon as she entrusted her weight to them, her legs turned to jelly. Her fall was less than graceful. It resembled a collapse more than a fall. The crash was deafening, and she noted with a sickening nonchalance that that was the first sound she had ever heard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Her consciousness, which was slowly forcing itself awake, shouted for her to get back to her feet, but that certainly wasn’t happening. She seemed to have frozen, or at least her limbs had. So, in helplessness absolute, she laid there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    She wasn’t quite sure just how long she had been on the cold floor, her body calling out all its various newly formed bruises. At some point, though, she heard the second noise that she had ever processed:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    That of a door opening.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>It was a panicked sound, and was almost immediately followed by said door being slammed into a wall. In a split second, hands were on her shoulders, too many of them, tugging and pulling and pressing at her neck. Muttered voices were full of worry, but as soon as the two fingers were removed from her neck, they seemed far less afraid. The hands withdrew, except for two, which gently lifted her from under her armpits. She did her best to help, but even with her best efforts she could only manage to get her legs to twitch.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Slowly, the disembodied hands eased her onto the hospital bed, landing her right back where she had started. With considerable effort, and some failed attempts, she got her eyes open.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>A woman stood over her, her sepia skin somewhat washed out by the light behind her. She wore an expression of concern, and seemed to be stopping herself from reaching out to the amnesiac before her. Her hair was black, and was tightly pulled back into a bun, revealing the small stud earrings that dangled from her ears.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Hello?” She asked, her tone soft, but still with a clear overtone of nerves. “Can you hear me?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Something told the amnesiac that her first words should be something important, something memorable, but the thought only occurred to her after she spoke:</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yeah. I can hear you.” She croaked out, throat scraping with every word.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“That’s good.” The doctor reached up to stroke her own hair. A nervous habit. “Do you know where you are?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Um..” She tried to remember the word that she had found earlier. “Horse? Hatchet, uh, hot-tub, hotel, uh, hospital!”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The doctor seemed at least somewhat taken aback by that, but nodded.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. Um, do you have a name?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The answer seemed like it should have come off of her tongue easily, but when she opened her mouth, there was nothing there. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Let me check in the back.” She muttered, but, again, the spot in her mind where her name should have been stored was merely an empty cubbyhole. “No, I don’t think we have any of those in stock.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The doctor screwed her face up, confused, clearly. The amnesiac sensed that she was supposed to be saying something.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Uh, I give up. What is my name? I don’t… I don’t know this riddle. I haven’t heard it before.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“It’s not a riddle, ma’am. Ok, um.” She cleared her throat. “What do you remember? Do you know where you’re from? Let’s start with that.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I’m from home, I think.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“And where is your home?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Uh… I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The doctor stopped.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“You don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“No. I’m from here, I think. From this bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I know. But, before that. Where were you before this?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Um…”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The amnesiac closed her eyes, the gears in her mind scratching together and spewing sparks. There was a whole gearbox in her head, but it seemed as though one cog wasn’t moving.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>For a moment, it engaged.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>An image flickered in her mind; a picture of a small home, painted in green, not too unlike the hospital. Was that home?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>No. It wasn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Another image, painting a portrait of a bleak, white room. This time, the word came to her head quickly. It was a laboratory. Was that home?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Yes. She thought so.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She opened her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“England. I’m from England. Is this England?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“No.” The doctor shook her head again, but there was a considerable increase in her audible optimism. “No, this is America. We’re in Wisconsin. But, okay, England. Do you remember where in England?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“No. No, I don’t think so- Why, why am I in America? I’m not supposed to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“We don’t know.” The doctor’s tone turned somber again. At the mention of ‘we’ the amnesiac noted the two white-coated men standing behind the doctor. She looked at the amnesiac, eyes filled seemingly with liquid pity.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“A biker found you.” She started, quietly, as if she was explaining something horrid to a young child. “In a ditch. He thought you were dead, but… well, let’s just say you were lucky that he found you.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The amnesiac’s eyes widened as they regarded the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“How long have I been out?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>A pause.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Two weeks. That’s all we know.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Two weeks…” The words felt wrong on her tongue. “Then, then who am I?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“The Ashland County Jane Doe, I’m afraid.”</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  
  <span>The metal ramp into the plane’s cargo hold clattered and creaked as Irene Baker hurried up it. The shoes she wore, dressy things designed to look as though they glowed with polish, were obviously not designed for such a steep ascent.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Jamie, a stately woman whose appearance was marred by her pale blue hair, seemed to have no issue, on the other hand. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Sir, remind me again where we’re going?” Irene asked as they made it to the top of the ramp. The cargo hold was sparse, containing little more than a regulation vehicle and a few crates, all of which were strapped down as if the world depended on it.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Maybe it did. Irene wouldn’t know either way.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“San Lorenzo, Paraguay.” Jamie replied with her usual firm tone. “You know Spanish?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Good, cause I sure as hell don’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Irene nodded, as if any of her questions had been answered. She was practically jogging to keep up with her superior. Damn height difference.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The cargo hold was small, and they were to its exit quickly. Jamie, who was still in the front, pushed open the metal door, which led to the plane’s central cabin. Immediately, to their left, another door presented itself-- the entrance to their lab-- but that was not their destination.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Jamie kept on, pushing through the cabin like a man on a mission. Agents Lemont and Fuir, both field agents with the scars to show it, looked up as their commander passed, but did not dare disrupt her. She had somewhere to be, and little more than the end of the world could get between her and her destination.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>A small hallway was next, leading off of the cabin. The doors, of which there was one on each side, led to the plane’s bunks, which were also not Jamie’s destination. She shoved through the door at the end of the hallway, and was, finally, at her goal.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The cockpit was almost eerily dark. The vehicle was outside, but the sun had set hours ago, and Newfoundland nights were brutally black. The only illumination was provided by the door to the bunks, and when that fell closed, the darkness was only broken by the various flashing lights and screens on the dashboard. All of these, also, lit up the face of the woman in the pilot’s seat. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Jamie placed a commanding hand on the seatback, getting the pilot’s attention. The pilot, a hard-faced woman known as Tris, turned. She already knew what her commander’s request would be.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Where are we headed, Ma’am?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Get us to San Lorenzo.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“When do we need to aim to be there?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yesterday.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Hmm. Irene, what’s the weather going to be like tonight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It took Irene a moment to realize that she was being spoken to, she had been so caught up in her own thoughts. She hadn’t even thought about the weather today, much less looked at a forecast. But she didn’t need to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Nothing to worry about. No storms.” Irene replied matter-of-factly. She really would’ve preferred if Tris looked at an actual weather forecast, but for a military pilot, she was awfully superstitious, and she trusted Irene’s judgement more than that of any meteorologist, even though Irene knew nothing at all about the weather. Her gut feelings were just accurate, apparently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “In that case, I can get us there in four, how’s that?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Better than five.” Jamie nodded.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Sounds good, Ma’am. We’ll take off in ten.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Thank you, Tris.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>From the other side of the plane, Irene could already hear the cargo hold ramp grinding into place with the horrid sound of metal scraping against metal. If their pilot said the plane would be wheels up in ten minutes, that really meant more like five. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I need to grab something.” Jamie muttered, before turning to Irene. “Can you meet me in the briefing room in five?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Of course, ma’am.” Irene nodded astutely. Her first few days with Jamie had brought her to expect her superior to look at her oddly whenever she replied in such a formal way, but she seemed to have gotten used to it. Either way, Jamie had quickly disappeared into another part of the plane. Irene waved a quick goodbye to Tris, before making her way directly to the briefing room.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Really, she should have been stopping at her own bunk and fixing her hair. She had tied it that morning in an awfully intricate fishtail braid, but that had been destroyed by the wind as soon as she’d stepped foot out of the plane. Now, she was sure that at least half of the braid was undone, and she looked like she had an unspooled ball of yarn atop her head.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Not now, though. Jamie didn’t care about that kind of thing. Even though Irene hated having her hair tied up at all (something about it just felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>), she needed a second to think. She hadn’t had one of those all day.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Luckily, Lemont and Fuir were too deeply engrossed in a game of cards to notice as she passed, and she had ducked quickly into the briefing room.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The lights were off when she entered, and once she had closed the door behind her, she couldn’t see a thing. Some people may have been afraid of the dark, but for whatever reason, she rather enjoyed it. It was as if, once her brain didn’t have to focus on sight anymore, it freed up more space for her to think. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She needed to think, right now. To take in everything that had happened in the last few hours.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>It had started off normally enough, she supposed. As normal as anything could be as an agent of the Unexplained Phenomenon Handling Operations, far better known as UPHO. It was a tiny division, within the CIA. Jamie’s team was their only dedicated mobile task force. Thus, though they largely were able to manage their own affairs, they had </span>
  <em>
    <span>a lot</span>
  </em>
  <span> of affairs to handle.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Today, they’d finally flown out of Dubai, where they’d been for almost a week. It was a beautiful place, but Irene spent half the mission feeling like she was about to faint from the heat. Going to Newfoundland was an extremely welcome change.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Their mission in Canada had been one of their easier ones. A senator’s wife had fallen mysteriously ill, and feared that it was somehow related to the skin graft she had received only weeks before. Despite Fuir’s jokes, the woman was quite reasonable. Irene had been sent to the hospital where the sick woman had been treated, in order to find if the skin donor could be tracked down. However, her efforts had been stopped short when Jamie rushed into the records office, insisting that they needed to fly off to South America at once.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Irene followed without protest, but one thing wouldn’t stop weighing in her mind:</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The ink that recorded the skin graft operation had listed, next to the operation’s skin donor, only two letters: N/A</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She supposed that that was what was occupying her thoughts, but she knew it was more than that. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Irene Baker was not a woman of medicine. She had a PhD, yes, but her medical skills did not extend far beyond basic first aid. She was quite confident that, if she needed to, she could stabilize someone until medics arrived, but that was all. To her, medical journals were Greek, and even reading about injuries was enough to make her stomach churn. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She knew nothing about medicine. Then, why was she getting such deja vu from… from every mission? The stabbing victim in Nigeria, the gala in Norway, the animal possession case in Dubai, they all felt so familiar. As if she knew the answer to every single one, but it was frozen to her tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>It didn’t make sense.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Then again, none of this did. It didn’t make sense that she had woken up three weeks ago in a hospital bed, only to be told that she had been hit over the head with the butt of a rifle. It made no sense that she could hardly remember </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> before that moment. Whether it made sense or not, though, she had found herself upon this plane. Apparently, Jamie had requested her specifically, to be her second-in-command.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Irene knew nothing about unexplained phenomena, or the paranormal, or anything like that. She wasn’t sure what exactly she knew about, but it definitely wasn’t that. Apparently, though, she’d been working with the division for twenty years.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“It’ll come back to you.” The doctors had promised. It never did, but Irene did finally realize what she was good at: Improvising. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Sometimes, she hated just how good of an actor she had become. She clenched her hands into fists, and sucked in a deep breath. She needed to stop thinking. She needed to stop thinking like Irene, and start thinking like Agent Baker.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Luckily, that wasn’t all too difficult, as the door was open just a moment later. Jamie flicked on the lights as soon as she entered, so Irene hoped her superior hadn’t noticed that she had been standing in the pitch black.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Irene’s eyes adjusted quickly, and she quickly took up her space by the table in the center of the room. Jamie was quickly at her side, already tapping away at the screen embedded in the table’s wood surface.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“So, Paraguay. What’s the report?” Irene started. “Not to be rude, ma’am, but I really would like to resolve our affairs in Canada.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I would as well, but this is important. Mrs. Jay will be fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yes, the hospital seemed to know what they were doing.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yeah. She’ll be fine. Besides, this is a priority one mission. We’re dealing with a UHA, here.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“A UHA?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Unidentified human anomaly?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Sorry, never was good with acronyms.” In all truth, she had never heard the acronym before in her life.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Jamie grunted. “They’re our highest priority cases, dealing with human beings with supposedly supernatural elements to them.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“So, superheros?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Nah, not really. Most of the time it’s just some loon claiming his house is haunted. Or a magician looking for attention.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Then, why such a high priority?” Irene quirked an eyebrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Ninety-nine percent of the time, UHAs are just crazy people who think they’ve seen their cat’s ghost or something. But that one leftover percent? It’s completely real. And this one doesn’t seem like crazed ramblings.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Jamie swiped on the screen, sending its contents to a projected screen inlaid in the wall. The projector shone an image of what appeared to be a police report, written in English, thankfully. Irene vaguely remembered having learnt Spanish, at least at some point, but she wasn’t sure that now was the time to put that to the test.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Two days ago, the downtown district of Lamria, a town a few miles from San Lorenzo, was severely damaged by what appeared to be a freak storm. A hurricane, in fact.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“A hurricane? In inland South America?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Exactly. The really odd thing? The storm only hit Lamria, nowhere else. It was as if it just appeared in this tiny down, and disappeared.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Then, what’s the human aspect?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I was just getting there. While clearing out the rubble in an office building, a body was found. No one recognized it, and, despite seemingly having had a building collapse on top of it, it showed no signs of injury.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“But, they were still found dead?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yes, right in the eye of the storm. The body was transferred to a forensic lab in San Lorenzo. They did an autopsy, some preliminary toxicology work, but get this. No one can figure out how this person died.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Jamie swiped left, and the image changed to show an autopsy report. On one side of it, an outline was drawn of the front and back of a body, intended to be used for showing where injuries were located on the deceased.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The outlines were blank.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“The toxicology reports aren’t finished, but initial testing found that there were no drugs in the deceased’s body at the time of death. And, alongside that, no injuries. None at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“As if they just collapsed.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“In the center of a freak storm.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Weird.” That was really all Irene could say about the situation. “What’s our mission directive?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“We get Dr. Lucah down there, and see if she can find anything that the lab missed. If not, we confiscate and incinerate the body.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The whole case was already making Irene sick to her stomach, but the mention of Dr. Lucah calmed her down, somewhat. Lucah was the team’s biologist, and was just about the smartest woman Irene had ever met. If she couldn’t find anything, then there was nothing to find.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Sounds good. Do you want me to handle the paperwork, this time around? See if I can get the body transferred to us?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“No, I can handle that. I need you to stay with Lucah. She’ll need someone who can speak Spanish.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Of course, ma’am.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Jamie nodded firmly, in a way that informed Irene that this conversation was finished. Almost immediately afterwards, she could see her superior drop the formality. She stretched her arms about her head, and let out a yawn she hardly tried to stifle.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Let’s get some rest.” She spoke, yawning again mid-way through her sentence. “You look like you need it.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I could say the same to you, ma’am.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Then, goodnight, Agent Baker. I’ll see you in Paraguay.”</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  
  <span>It took the amnesiac a week to learn how to walk.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>It was frustrating, in a way she couldn’t quite describe. She should have known how to walk. It was such a simple concept, just one foot in front of the other. She could imagine herself standing, imagine the way it would feel, the way the linoleum would feel beneath her feet. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She knew these things, but something divided her from them. She could send all the right signals to her body, but they were not received. As if they were simply cast off, in favor of paralysis and some odd twitching.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The doctors had sent her to their physical therapist-- a frenzied man whose brown hair had a blond shock through it. He had the appearance of a child, especially in height, but luckily, he did not have the skills of one. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>At the start of the process, the amnesiac was hopeless. She couldn’t support her own weight while standing, much less could she actually walk. The physical therapist, however, acted as if her pathetic attempts were successes all in their own.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The amnesiac hated him. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Regardless, she did as he said, though none of it did anything. He kept saying that her progress was incredible. Her legs still felt like jelly, and would not respond to what she demanded of them.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>By the end of the first week, she was all but ready to spit in the man’s face and storm off. And, when he cheered her on for merely </span>
  <em>
    <span>standing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she did just that.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The amnesiac stormed off. The amnesiac walked.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The physical therapist’s gaze followed her, a stupid grin wide on his face. She had not seen him since that, as, immediately afterwards, she had run back to her hospital room and screamed into a pillow. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The doctor’s had celebrated in a way that the amnesiac found insanely excessive, with the doctor in charge of her case going so far as to hug her. She made it very clear that she did not want to be touched.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Since then, though, she hadn’t seen much of anyone. Maybe her message had been a bit too clear, that she wanted to be left alone. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Her days were… long. That was the best way to describe it. The doctors had made it very clear that she was free to roam the hospital as she pleased, now that she was, physically, mostly recovered. She had thought about it. There was a library, supposedly, and a courtyard, too.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>But she didn’t. She wouldn’t risk having to see anyone else.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>So, there were only two times a day when she left her bed: Lunch and dinner. Once she had been deemed well enough, the nurses had told her that they wouldn’t be bringing her food, anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Besides,” One of them spoke, smile sickeningly candy sweet, “Maybe you can make some friends down in the lunchroom.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She did not do that. Luckily, there were enough people in the cafeteria during lunch hour that she could simply melt into the crowd. No one bothered her much.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The amnesiac stared at the clock, now. It listed 11:57 in harsh, red lights. In three minutes, lunch would start, and she would have to get up and go down to the cafeteria. The worst time of her day, though it was the only time when she actually did anything.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She looked down at her hands. They trembled. They never seemed to stop doing that.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She supposed that she may as well get up. The lunchroom was halfway across the hospital campus, and it would take her at least five minutes to get there.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She should get up. Why couldn’t she?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She wasn’t sure, but she kept her eyes firmly on the clock, watching with a guarded interest as the minutes slowly ticked past, until the number showed 12:00.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>That was when the amnesiac got up. It was still so strange to her, that she could simply walk, without needing someone to lean on. It was a good thing, though. She hated when others touched her.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She shook her head, doing her best not to get caught up in her own thoughts, as she pushed open the door to her hospital room. The long-term care ward was empty, luckily, and she started her way down the hallway.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>That was where they had put her. Long-term care. It wasn’t like they had somewhere specifically reserved for women that they found at the bottom of ditches who couldn’t remember their own names.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She made her way out of the ward, and into an elevator. An empty elevator. It clicked as it landed on the bottom floor of the building, and the amnesiac slipped out of the doors as they opened. A hurried family took her place in the elevator as she got out.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Of all places where she could wake up, why did it have to be a place with so many </span>
  <em>
    <span>people</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She did her best to ignore them as she weaved her way out of the building, and across the street, into the room that housed more short-term hospital residents, and, more importantly, that housed the cafeteria.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>This building was even more packed, but she had learned a roundabout way she could take to the lunch room, which would avoid the more crowded areas. In only five minutes, just like that, she was to her destination. She pushed open the double doors.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>There were so many people that it nearly made her sick.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Whatever. She forced down the nausea that was already beginning to brew in her throat and made her way through the cafeteria line. It felt oddly familiar, as if she had gone through the same procedure every single day of her life.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Maybe she had. She had no way of knowing.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Food in hand, she found herself a place, far enough away from others that she felt comfortable eating. She did her best to eat quickly, but with her hands still shaking, it was quite the challenge.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>How long could she go on like this?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The thought broke into her mind the second she put her guard down. It was the thought she had been trying to keep out for so long. It was always at the back of her mind, but she kept it at bay, making sure it stayed in a place where she couldn’t see it.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>But now it was here.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>How long could she go on like this? She had been at the hospital for three weeks, now. Almost a month. Sure, she had been unconscious for two of those weeks, but she wasn’t unconscious </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She couldn’t live at a hospital. Not forever. She couldn’t spend hours every day staring at the clock, waiting for the next mealtime. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Her hand shook so much that her fork went flying, clattering onto her metal tray.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She had to be something. She had to be something other than Jane Doe. Something other than the amnesiac. She was 25, for fucks sake. At least, that was the best guess that the doctors could make. She must have been something before this.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>So what was it?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She didn’t know.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The amnesiac picked her fork back up, and pierced a piece of food with it. Swallowing it was a struggle, as was the next swallow. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She was so caught up in her own world that the crash next to her startled her half to death.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She leapt up, immediately out of her own little world, her heart racing and her legs trembling, again, as she tried to find the source of the noise. She found it rather quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The man next to her, a young man with red hair and a rounded face, had collapsed onto the ground, his head having slammed into the linoleum flooring. He was gasping for air, his chest heaving, but the reaction seemed to be involuntary. Judging by his stillness and closed eyes, he was completely unconscious.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The amnesiac was at his side in less than a second. It wasn’t even a conscious thought, a realization of obligation. It was an action of pure muscle memory. She watched as her fingers shot to his neck-- he still had a pulse, thank goodness, but it was weak and far too fast-- then to his chest. She wasn’t sure what she was searching for, but she knew the answer, as if it was the simplest fact she had ever had to recall. A fact as simple as her own name.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Anaphylaxis.” She practically shouted to the slowly growing crowd in the vicinity. “Severe allergic reaction. He needs epinephrine! An epipen!”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She wasn’t sure where it came from, but a moment later, the epipen was in her grasp. The search for a vein was quick-- of course it was, she had done the same procedure a million times-- and the injection was even moreso.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>For a few moments, the world hung in a silent intermission, before the seizing man’s breathing slowly began to calm, and his hands twitched in a way that must’ve been intentional. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>From the crowd, two women in white coats appeared, tearing forward. They’d run all the way here. By that time, however, the man on the floor had begun to sit up, and his breathing was back to normal, though his racing heartbeat could practically be heard across the room. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>One of the doctors crouched down by the now-sitting man. The other stopped by the amnesiac.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She would have known her anywhere, with her tight bun and her stud earrings. It was the amnesiac’s attending doctor, the one who had gotten her from a coma to being able to walk and eat on her own.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The amnesiac looked up, and met the woman’s eyes for the first time. She stared at her for a few seconds, her own breath heaving from the whole situation.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Nadiya Jones.” The words couldn’t have felt more natural on her tongue. “That’s my name. Nadiya Jones.”</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  
  <span>Agent Baker had never been exactly a religious woman, at least by Western standards, but if she had had to describe what hell was like, she would have described it as how it felt to step out of the plane onto that Paraguayan airport tarmac.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The heat hit her as if it was a solid thing, and she found herself very nearly thrown off by it. She descended the plane’s cargo hold ramp next to Jamie, who didn’t seem bothered by the scorching heat one bit. Behind them, Dr. Lucah and Fuir followed in step. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Their contact was already waiting for them on the tarmac; A man with overly spiked hair, clearly soaked in gel, who was dressed in clothes that were professional, but still light. As soon as she was near enough, Jamie shook the man’s hand cordially.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Dr. Juan.” The man introduced himself. He sounded younger than he looked. His English was accented, but Irene couldn’t quite place it. “I assume that you’re Ms. Jamie?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“That would be me.” Jamie nodded. “How are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Well, though the heat hasn’t been kind to any of us.” He smirked. “Is it only you four?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“The rest of us are staying back on the plane.” Jamie said it in an oddly harsh tone, as if Juan had been questioning her motives.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Sounds good. Our car is over there. I can drive.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Jamie nodded, and took the doctor’s lead to a black SUV that was parked nearby. Words were printed on the side of it, but they were written in such a swirling font that Irene couldn’t decipher them. She didn’t have a chance to, either, as she got in the back of the SUV. As he promised, Juan slid into the driver’s seat, and Jamie got into the seat next to him. Dr. Lucah sat next to Agent Baker, and Fuir got in the back. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>As if eager to get out of the airport, Juan immediately shoved the vehicle into gear, and began across the tarmac.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“How was your flight here?” He asked. Irene pegged him as one of the chatty types, who felt uncomfortable if no conversation was being passed. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“You came very quickly. Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Of course.” Jamie visibly shifted for niceties to business. “Has there been any news about the body?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“We finished another part of the total toxicology report last night, but it didn’t change anything. We still can’t find any evidence of any drugs being present in the body.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Anything else?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“No.” He shook his head as they peeled off of the tarmac and onto a street. “It’s not something we’ve ever seen before. The autopsy showed nothing but signs of perfect health. No injuries, no signs of sickness. In all scientific sense, this woman shouldn’t have died.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Do you have an identity yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Again, no. No one in Lamria has ever seen her before. They aren’t even sure how she got into that office building.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Are there any theories? Any ideas?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“None that make any sense.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“We deal in nonsense.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Juan clenched his teeth. “Yes, well, there has been one particurly prominent theory among the locals in Lamria. They think, somehow, this dead woman caused the storm.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I suppose they do have a point.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Juan quirked an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Well, for one thing, it was an inland hurricane. Which isn’t a thing that happens.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Not usually.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“They call them derechos, here.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Okay, yeah. There was a derecho. It wouldn’t make sense for the storm to start practically in this office building. And, even more than that, the body has no injuries, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“That’s right.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Which would make no sense if the building collapsed on top of them.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“That’s impossible, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I know.” Jamie turned to look out the window. “That’s why they called us here.”</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  
  <span>Detective Poole seemed to have an almost stereotypical appearance, judging by what his job was. A brown coat obscured her shape, secured with oversized buttons on the front of the garment. She smelled distinctly of cigarettes, but she didn’t seem like the type to smoke. She had dragged a chair into Nadiya’s hospital room, and positioned it next to the chair that Nadiya herself was already seated in. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She felt awfully underdressed for the occasion, with her hospital garments and loosely tied up hair, but that was the least of her concerns at the moment.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Poole reached out a hand to her as soon as she sat down. Nadiya shook it without thinking. It felt natural, though she wasn’t quite sure why.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Dr. Jones. It’s so good to see you well.” The detective smiled. Nadiya wasn’t sure why it made her so uneasy. She supposed she wasn’t exactly used to being referred to as a doctor.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yeah.” She was still learning about this whole formality thing. “Uh, who are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She had been informed that she would be receiving a visit from a detective, but besides that, she didn’t have much to go on. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Oh. Of course.” Poole nodded. “I worked on your case when you went missing.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I went missing?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Poole quirked an eyebrow at Nadiya’s complete lack of knowledge about herself.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“In Washington, yes.” Detective Poole opened the briefcase that she had carried with her into the room and took out a somewhat worn manilla folder. A number was scrawled in sharpie on the front. Under the numbers, the words “Doctor Nadiya Jones” were inscribed. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Poole flipped open the folder. At the front sat a form of some sort, neatly filled out in cursive. She handed it to Nadiya, though she could hardly decipher the handwriting.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>At the top, in a printed font, the form was signified as a ‘Missing Persons Internal Report Form.’ Just below that, her name was written.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“The director of research and development at your university, Dr.Benwick,  reported you missing when you never returned from a grant acquisition meeting in Texas. He was worried about you. That was November.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“It’s still November, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Well… yes. Dr. Jones, you were reported missing November of last year.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The detective was silent for a moment, before she handed Nadiya another piece of paper from the folder. It was a map, showing a somewhat indirect route from Washington to the Southern tip of Texas.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“You took a series of Amtrak routes down to Texas. There’s security footage of you arriving at the last station on your route, but after that, no one has seen you. Not until they, well, I was told you were found in a ditch.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yeah. I think that’s right.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Detective Poole looked up from the papers, and met Nadiya’s eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Do you have any memory of this?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Nadiya shook her head.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I don’t remember anything before waking up here.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Are you sure? What about the university? You worked there for five years, you have to remember that.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“What about your family? Do you remember England?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“School?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“No!” Nadiya balled her hands into fists. “None of it! Nothing before this stupid </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> hospital room! I don’t remember anything that </span>
  <em>
    <span>happened</span>
  </em>
  <span>. So unless you have something that can get me out here, I don’t want to hear it, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Detective Poole stopped.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” The detective apologized quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I’m here. I’m not missing anymore. Case closed.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>It wasn’t truly that Nadiya had no interest in her own past. In fact, it was practically the only thing that she cared about. She just couldn’t remember. It was so stupid. It made her feel like an idiot. But she didn’t have any say in the matter. She could try as hard as she wanted, but her mind was not coming back to her. She had to accept that.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>And this detective was not helping. She didn’t want to talk about her past, not with this woman. She just wanted a way out of this hospital.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“There’s still a year of your past that’s missing.” Poole spoke gently.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I know. There’s 25 damn years of my past that are missing, and I don’t care about a single one of them. I’ve still got quite a few years yet to go, those are the ones I care about.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Detective Poole nodded and closed her folder.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“The R&amp;D Director, the same one who reported you missing, says that there’s still a place for you at the university, once you are well enough to return.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>That alone was enough to melt nearly all of the tension that had been building up in Nadiya’s muscles.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Thank you, Detective Poole.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Of course. I hope you can return soon. From what I’ve heard, you were quite the chemist.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Nadiya nodded her agreement, and Poole collected her things before standing. She offered a hand to help Nadiya stand, but she refused it. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>As the detective was about halfway to the door, she seemed to remember something, and turned.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I work at the police jurisdiction for the university. But, if you ever need to contact me.” The woman took a card from her coat pocket, and placed it on a low table near the room’s entrance. “If you remember anything, anything at all, you can reach me at that number.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Thank you. I will.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Detective Poole nodded, and, like that, she was gone.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Nadiya stayed sat there for at least half an hour more, letting the sunlight seeping in through the window warm her. Something felt wrong about the conversation, and she kept repeating every word of it in her mind, until the realization struck her.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Back at the university, the director of R&amp;D had been a woman, and her name certainly hadn’t been Dr.Benwick.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  
  <span>The San Lorenzo Departamento de Investigación Forense was a massive building of a distinctly colonial architecture, with an outside covered in ostentatious arches and simulated brickwork. Dr. Juan parked in a lot marked as being reserved for the building’s employees, and gestured for the group to exit the vehicle. They did so, grouping together as the doctor led the way towards the building’s front doors.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“This place was part of a university, at one point. Its main science building. It was one of the first universities founded in Paraguay. This is all that’s left of it now, but, pretty cool, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Jamie’s facial expression indicated that she did not find this ‘cool.’ On the drive here, Juan had already done his fair share of rambling, and she did not hide the fact that she was very much tired of the whole affair. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Luckily, Dr. Juan got the message, and led the way across the rest of the parking lot in silence. Upon going through the front double doors, he gestured for Jamie to go to the front desk. After that, he turned to Irene and Dr. Lucah. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“You’re here to examine the body, yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Mhm.” Irene nodded, and followed him as he gestured for her to do. Lucah followed her, while Fuir stayed back with Jamie. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Something about this place must have made the director uneasy. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have brought their combat specialist along.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Nevermind that, Agent Baker thought, as Dr. Juan led her into an elevator. The doors slid closed, and he finally seemed to relax. She supposed that Jamie could have that effect on people.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Again, Dr. Juan started to talk. It seemed to be one of his favorite hobbies, listening to his own voice.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Interesting woman you two work for, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I guess you could say that.” Lucah nodded. There was minimal humor in it.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yeah… Well, the body has been moved to one of our labs, so you should have all the equipment you may need. An autopsy has already been performed, so you are welcome to take any samples.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Mhm.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Dr. Juan?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Did you perform the autopsy yourself?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“No, but I read the report.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“So, was all that true? About finding nothing? I know we often leave the more gruesome details out around people who, well, aren’t used to dealing with stuff like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Juan shook his head. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“We can’t find anything, but our operation here is more focused on minor forensic evidence. Hair and blood. We don’t deal with bodies much. I assume you are more experienced in that field?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I’ve worked on more living bodies than dead, but yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The elevator doors slid open.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“You’ll find the lab two doors to the left. Room 243.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Dr. Lucah nodded her thanks, and she and Irene made their way from the elevator, while Juan remained inside. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>It smelled sickeningly of antiseptic and blood, which only increased as they approached the room. Dr. Lucah pushed her way in first.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Irene wasn’t sure that she had ever seen a dead body before. Maybe she had, before her stint of amnesia. There was something odd about it, something that made her stomach turn. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>A human was not supposed to be that still. Nothing was supposed to be that still. The body laid on a metal exam table, flesh white, limbs limp. Any color it may have retained was completely washed out by the blazing lights above.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Small stitches ran along the deceased’s front.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“You don’t have to watch.” Dr. Lucah seemed to be well able to sense Irene’s unease. “I know Jamie didn’t want me to go alone, but you can just… sit over there.” She gestured to a desk and chair in the corner.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“No, I’m fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“You sure?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Eh… I’ll just stay out of your way, actually.” Irene conceded. She didn’t want to be useless, but she figured that she wouldn’t be much help anyways, judging by her relative lack of medical training. She headed over to the corner. “I’m here if you need help, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yeah. Sounds good.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Irene didn’t look, but she heard a metallic clattering as Dr. Lucah prepared her tools.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“What exactly am I supposed to be looking for, anyways? Just a cause of death?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I suppose so.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Easy enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Do you have any idea as to what it might be?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Not exactly, but I’m sure it’s perfectly natural.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The sound of stitches snapping.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yeah. Of course.” Irene nodded. Of course it was. What else could it be? “Hey Lucah?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Are bodies usually that… white?” Irene cringed at her own words. That was a stupid question. “It just seems weird.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Not usually. Just the lighting, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Are you sure?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Baker, I’m working.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I know. Sorry.” Irene gulped. “It’s just weird. What, with our last mission being with the skin grafts and all.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“It doesn’t look too unusual, besides the color.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Could you maybe just… look closer?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Irene.” Lucah sighed. “If anything, it’s going to be a respiratory disease, not something to do with skin.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Wouldn’t they have already looked at that, though?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  
  <span>The sound of stitches popping stopped.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Will it make you feel better if I look at a skin sample?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I mean, you don’t have to. It’s just an avenue of research, maybe.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Was that a yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“...Yeah. I guess so. Last mission was odd, that’s all.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Fine.” Lucah sighed again.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Irene was quiet after that, getting the message that Lucah had had enough of her fretting. She tried not to listen to the sounds of the procedure, and did her best to distract herself with thoughts of the last mission.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Skin Donor: N/A.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>That image, those simple words, simply would not leave her alone. Surely, they meant nothing. Maybe the hospital had just lost track of the donor. Surely that was it. It was simply Irene’s nerves. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Those nerves, though, seemed to outweigh her conscious rationale. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The sound of machinery being manually adjusted clacked off of the walls of the lab.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>A second or two of quiet, then:</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Irene, can you come look at this?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Uh… is it blood? I can’t do blood.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“It’s not.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She got up from the corner, keeping her eyes off of the body as best as she could. Lucah stood at a counter jutting from one wall, with an elaborate microscope set up on it.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Just look through here.” Lucah pointed to a lense on the apparatus. Irene nodded, and did so.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Her eyes took a moment to adjust, and another moment to understand exactly what she was seeing. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“This is the sample you took?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The sample seemed to be a cross-section of flesh. On the lower part, it looked normal. It was a tone too pale to be human, but Irene could believe that it had come from a deceased person. On top of it, though, some odd sort of film seemed to be layered, like plastic wrap. It glittered off of the lab’s bright lights. It wasn’t white, not exactly. It was more opaque than it was transparent, but it certainly wasn’t normal.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“It’s a graft.” Lucah explained as Irene stepped away from the microscope. “It’s a graft… on top of the skin. And it’s certainly not from a human.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“It’s from something else?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“No. I don’t think so. It’s not from anything living. It’s artificial. It’s plastic.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Irene turned. It wasn’t an action that she controlled. It felt more as that her limbs were simply being pulled in that direction, giving her no choice but to comply. She took a step closer to the body, and looked upon its face.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>She hadn’t noticed it before but… she knew this woman. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think in the comments!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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